


Earthbound

by Allheroeswearhats



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Brothers, Concern, Family, Fantasy, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, References to Depression, Senses, scifi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-07-15
Packaged: 2018-11-04 05:50:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10984665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allheroeswearhats/pseuds/Allheroeswearhats
Summary: Centuries after humanity fled a dying Earth and found sanctuary in the stars the planet has healed enough to support them once more. It's the chance of a new life but, for a certain few, ghosts of an older time whisper to them from across the expanse of stars. We are all more than stardust.





	1. Scattered Amongst The Stars

Alfred is six. It was his birthday last Tuesday and he got to have a really big party and it was really really cool, but the coolest thing ever was that he got an e-tab from his Ma. _Everyone_ at school already has an e-tab -as a July baby he's one of the youngest- so now he can finally join in with the special classes that they have and play all of those games at lunch time.

Alfred doesn't like feeling left out. It's not nice, Ma says, when you don't include people, so that means that the people who play games on their e-tabs when they know he doesn't have one are being mean on purpose and that really hurts. Except now, now he can join in and be their friend again and won't have to sit alone at his table when it's interactive e-tab time.

It's not _real_ learning, Pa says. He didn't want Alfred to have one, says that it rots your brains and makes you lazy, and says that the e-tab time is just 'enrichment', it's not part of the curriculum because they're not _learning_ anything, just downloading and watching stuff. Still, Ma must have talked him around because on Tuesday Alfred opened the box and there it was, all for him. There's some games on it, from Grandpa, and Ma had uploaded some of his favourite movies for him to watch as soon as he'd synced his mind up. Pa got there too, he must have done, because there's also some files on 'Earth History', 'The Fall', and one about extinct animals which Alfred really doesn't wanna read but Pa's been mentioning at least one of them every dinner since so he probably should.

He goes into school and begins to chatter happily to his friend Ben as soon as he sees him about 'Zip Blast', the current school-yard fad, and about how he can't wait to sync up and play because he'd been practising over the weekend and he thinks he's kinda good now.

Ben looks uncomfortable. 'Oh, I don't think we're playing that one any more.'

'Huh? But...' Alfred stops and looks at Ben in disbelief, 'but Friday you said it was the best ever!'

'Well it _was_ ,' Ben concedes, reluctantly, 'but now there's the new 'Rock-ite' out so we played that over the weekend.'

Alfred's heart sinks. 'We?'

His friend has the grace to look as apologetic as a six year old can look about these matters but nothing more than that and at recess Alfred is alone once more. He tells himself it's okay, he doesn't care anyway but it's a half-hearted lie at best and he doesn't try to kid himself for too long. Instead, he decides he may as well sync up one of those stuffy files Pa put on the e-tab to pass the time and nibbles a cookie to keep himself entertained.

His teacher finds him gormless, ten minutes later. His eyes are glazed as he stares unblinkingly at the wall and his cookie, one chunk missing, lies forlorn on the table next to his slack left hand but his brain is more full and awake than it's ever been. Information about a long dead planet far far away pound and crash in his head and as soon as the data file has been properly synced he reaches out for his tab and loads up another.

At eight, Alfred has become _that_ kid. No matter what conversation he gets into or who he talks to, if there is an opening or an opportunity he will bring up Earth and once that's accomplished he can go on and on for hours. He's downloaded every possible data file he can find about the entire subject: life before the Fall, the Fall itself, and the human race's desperate escape across the stars and for him it's still never enough. There's always another e-file to sync: about ancient nations, about old sciences and religions, about old wars and songs and dances and food; every second he can spare he gives over to tales of the past woven from the binary of today.

They are a scattered people, he likes to tell his listeners, there are hundreds of us, strewn across galaxies and planets and ships and no one knows how many of us there are any more because the Fall ripped apart alliances and histories so we don't even know who else is out there to find. Everything was lost, everything; the history, the stories, the places, the-

At this point, someone usually either changes the topic of conversation or he realises that they've walked away and left him babbling to himself, his eyes shut as he imagines the flight to freedom that happened too long before he was born. Adults are usually nicer and listen for longer, but they don't mean it either and by pretending to be interested in what he has to say they only serve to hurt him more.

He just can't understand, why does no one else find this interesting? Why does no one else dream of where they as a species came from and long to see it for themselves? Alfred would do anything to feel the wind on his face, to have breeze in his hair and the sun touch his skin because although he could play in a holo-room or go on a special holo-holiday it's not _real_ and Alfred longs to just _feel_ it. The sun on his planet is strong but the dense material of the domes blocks it from actually reaching him; he can't feel the warmth. At school he's learnt that it's too hot out there anyway and he'd die, but according to his data files the sun should be warm and gentle and fill up summer days and spring afternoons, so he can't quite feel the danger as much as he probably should. There's no air outside the domes either and what's the point of feeling the sun without a breeze, so he's not as sad as he could have been. It wouldn't ever compare to mankind's old sun, the sun in the stories he's growing up on.

He sometimes spends his recess and lunch at school rushing about as fast as his legs can carry him. Trying to get his own wind in such space is hard, but not impossible and if he focuses hard enough on his self-made breeze he can imagine that he's running over rocks and cliffs and weaving in and out of long gone animals that only the sky can remember. If this doesn't work, he syncs with his e-files to learn about something else, he's started to get into the people recently and likes the stories about normal stuff the most. Food, clothes, toys. Relatable things that he can see in his own home and use to imagine that he's been transported back through time and space.

There are often pictures of houses and Alfred marvels as how _big_ they are and how much stuff those people must have had, collected form all the many places they must have seen. You can't get wood any more, but maybe if he asks Pa nicely he can get him some of that building material they use for making the new domes and he can practise making his own, just to see if he can.

He spends his weekends tinkering in his room with old bits of plastic, metal and cables and every now and again he plugs in a new circuit board to the plug sockets in his room and sees if he can make the lights turn on or off from somewhere else. Last weekend he built a fan and managed to make it blow. He can sync up a sound file from Earth and imagine that he's in a town somewhere way back when and there's a breeze on his face and there's someone who wants to talk to him.

Alfred is fifteen and is the best engineer in his school. He specialised early -he'd always had a knack for building things and he's good with numbers- and now this is what he's known for. Alfred can look at a electrical hub or a circuit board and immediately he can see either what's wrong or how to improve it and this makes him valuable. He's been building and fiddling with this sort of stuff in his room for ages but now it's finally cool, people actually _want_ him to do that now. He sees it as a lucky thing, that he was bullied so much for it previously, because now he can see how much bullshit people like to throw when they want you to do something, how much an opinion of someone can change depending on their age and talent. Too good too young: weird and a nerd, you're wasting your time. Then you hit the right age and suddenly you're very experimental, very mature, it's good to know what you want in life. But ah, still young enough not to know your worth, you'll fix this for me for free, yes? If he wasn't as good as he is, he thinks, how valuable would they think I am? The answer scares him because he knows what it is and knows how thin the line he treads is; there are others like him, don't forget.

What even is he, without the skills of his hands?

He is seventeen. Alfred hates it, but Ma could use the help and Pa's not getting any younger, so he accepted an offer not too long ago for a entry level job in the government engineering department. It is an amazing offer for someone so young and fresh out of school, he knows that, but as much as he enjoys what he does the days wear him out and he spends less time listening to his e-files and more time building the dreams of others far more affluent than he.

He thinks he's doing okay for a while. The days whittle by easily and he starts to build up a nice savings pile that he uses to help out his parents every now and again. But he's nothing special. There are hundreds, if not thousands, of kids just like him on this planet who have been fed on a diet of strict, specialised schooling meant to produce only the best and Alfred knows that the only thing which sets him apart from the many many _many_ others is his ability to just keep going. There is no safety in what he does at his age, no net to catch him if he slips up, so he begins to take on private jobs at the weekend to build up his CV further and get his name out there, making the chance of falling just that bit smaller. Before he realises it it's been a month since he last had the time set aside to listen to an e-file and that hits him, hard. He'd never had to set aside time before. Hell, he can't remember when he'd last done anything other than go to work, come home to sleep, and repeat.

He's struck by the monotony of it all. He can't see a difference between his life and that of his dad's, or his dad's friends, or anyone he knows, for that matter. Is this all there is? Is this all anyone does? When is there ever a _break?_ Then, he gets it. There won't be a break. As soon as you can't keep up in this crazy race he's in, you're worthless. He's kind of been kidding himself, almost, that there'd be an end to it all, like a video game where you complete the level and then suddenly it's free play. You work hard to get a reward of, of _something,_ or at least you can stop worrying and panicking about being left behind. There is no free play, he realises, it just keeps on going until you can't play any more because life has ground out your energy and sucked the vitality from your bones.

He goes running; pounding his feet on the treadmill he sucks in the humid air around him and imagines than he's running through an old Earthen jungle, dodging trees and leaping over crags in the forest floor. But there's no wind, and Earth refuses to come alive.

Alfred is eighteen. A message came through from Earth, old true Earth, that a new colony there is doing well and he hasn't been able to stop thinking about it since, thinking and dreaming about what he'd do if he ever went there, if he ever set up his life there instead of here. He could...no. There is no safety in history, he knows. There is no definite chance that anyone would want him to do that. Besides, there's no potential for definite growth, no stable career plan because you can't guarantee a career on digging up the scanty past of a long dead planet. But no matter how big of a safety net he could make for himself in engineering he feels no passion about any of it and the idea of spending his days encapsulated in this metal world of domes and tunnels makes him feel cold.

There's something that calls him in his dreams and whispers over the wind in his mind and this builds and builds in his feet until he can't keep them still any longer. One more look out of the window and up at the stars and he's gonna blow, he needs to get out and go go go because if he doesn't then he's gonna sink in this place.

Before he can stop himself he's bought a ticket and finds himself packing hurriedly late at night when his parents are asleep, stuffing clothes into the only bag he only which is far too small for this sort of thing but who the fuck travels anywhere these days? He hasn't got time to be better at this so he crouches under his bed and reaches in, all the way back until his hand scrapes the wall and he finds his old fan that he built when he was eight. He puts it on his bed, places his e-tab next to it with a message of what he's done and that's that.

He slips out without waking his parents, because saying goodbye would only be too hard and he knows that he'd end up changing his mind if they spoke even one word to him, so he says his farewells in silence and disappears.

* * *

Peter is five and he sits upon his mother's knee, playing with the buttons on her shirt. She's with other adults and they're all talking about something that he doesn't really understand but they all sound sad and the air feels heavy so he keeps quiet like a good boy should and thinks about other things to keep himself busy. He thinks about the e-book his nanny got him last Christmas, the one with the pretty pictures, and thinks that it would be nice to live inside that book, with the greens of grass that he's never touched before. He wonders if grass is hard or soft and he spends so long thinking of this that that night, when he is sleeping, he dreams that he is running on grass and it is prickly, tickling his feet.

There is a voice in the dream, singing him the story but it is not Nanny's voice, nor Mummy's or Daddy's, but another man's and the lilt of his voice sings a language Peter doesn't know but it is a good voice for story telling and so the dream is vivid and touchable. He flies through the grass, feet pounding at earth instead of metal and the voice chuckles, deep and throaty. It makes him feel safe.

He wakes up because his Mummy is stroking his hair and forgets; school teaches him about how the air system in his dome works. Grass isn't as important as breathing.

He is eight and they are learning about the old Earthen languages. There used to be many, his teachers says, and each language held a culture, a history and a soul of a people and there used to be hundreds of them on Earth before it Fell. The teacher is old; his words are flat and there is no passion in his tone, but a thrill runs up Peter's arms as he imagines so much more. From the nothing he is given his brain decides to give those dead languages life and all of a sudden there are bursts of sound echoing inside his head. The teacher moves on, the class sits bored, but Peter can hear consonants clash against teeth and tongue and fricatives slip between breathy vowels. There are phonemes which glide between dipthongs and tripthongs to bound and fall out of the hundreds of mouths of hundreds of people; whispers of a past no one can hear tell stories long forgotten.

There is a clap very close to his head which scares all of the sounds away. His teacher looms over him, frowning in exasperation.

'Again, Peter?' he says, 'Stop daydreaming, boy. I asked you a question.'

'Er...' his classmates snicker and he feels his ears go red. 'I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't listening.'

'That much was obvious.'

Peter's cheeks burn hotter and he stares at his e-tab, focusing on the light of the screen to stop him from crying.

Before too long the lesson changes, then the day ends and he's allowed to go home. He walks alone through the corridors and exits the school dome, coming into the shuttle bus bay. He's a big boy now, he can take the shuttle bus all by himself and he has a special card to prove it. Weaving in and out of the other children, he hurries to where his bus is docked and scrambles inside to rush to his favourite seat, hopping up and placing his bag on the seat beside him. He likes to sit alone, because then he can stare out of the window and dream for as long as the journey will let him without worrying about talking to someone. Not that anyone wants to anyway, the other children say he's not got a brain because he would rather focus on the story in his head than on their silly games.

Nanny doesn't mind, she says it's good for people to dream and says that he goes off to somewhere called 'Neverland' whilst she pinches his cheeks and calls him her little Peter Pan. But when he gets home Nanny isn't there, Mummy and Daddy are and they're huddled in front of the large e-screen in the sitting room, faces pinched in worry.

He drops his bag by the kitchen table and goes to join them. There is a man on the screen speaking about their air ventilation system and a 'catastrophic degradation' and about some big numbers with a scientist nodding seriously to his left.

'What do we do now?' His mother's voice is hushed, fragile.

His father raises his eyes to her and shakes his head slowly. 'Debbie... you heard what he said. The planet's no longer viable.' His eyes flick towards Peter, suddenly aware that he's there too, and he smiles although it doesn't reach his eyes. 'Hey Pete. Do you mind doing your homework in your room today?'

Peter could ask why, but he sees that his Daddy doesn't want him to and Mummy looks like she's going to cry, so he glances once more at the screen and nods. He leaves them with the scary looking numbers and tips his books onto his bed. That night he dreams of waves crashing against his legs and he tastes the salt on his lip when he wakes.

At nine, there's some breaking news. Earth, of all things Earth, is habitable once more and it can't come at a better time. Peter sits on his favourite sofa at Nan's house, with his father having lunch, when the planet-wide intercom coughs its way to life and briefly deafens them all before the sound adjusts ever so slightly.

'ATTENTION ALL. PRIMARY SUPPORT SYSTEMS FOR THE SOUTH SIDE HAVE SUFFERED AN IRREPERABLE MALFUNCTION. BACKUP SYSTEMS WILL HOLD FOR APPROXIMATLY 3 HOURS AND 45 MINUTES. THIS IS NOT A DRILL; MAKE YOUR WAY TO YOUR EVACUATION POINTS.'

Then, it falls silent once more.

South side, that's them. Peter immediately feels as though he's going to be sick and by the look on his dad's face he's not alone. Once one half of the planet goes the other will surely follow. It's something they've all been expecting and planning for for years, but it's far, far too soon, they should have more time than this; they're not ready to go and the government's not even started the evacuation programme yet. His Nan shoots a look at his father from where she's sat in her armchair. It's a look Peter can't really read because there's something there that he subconsciously doesn't want to acknowledge.

'Earth?' Her voice is a thin whisper.

His father nods gravely. 'We got them Mum, the tickets came yesterday.' Peter's heart briefly lifts at the prospect, a longing that's deep and euphoric but then it crashes quickly. 'But...'

His Nan smiles but it doesn't reach her eyes. 'I know.'

Slowly, with growing horror, Peter understands. 'Wait,' he whips his head back and forth between the two of them, 'Nanny, where-'

'Don't worry, Peter,' she gets up and goes to kneel in front of where he's frozen in his chair, hands digging nails into the old material, 'I'll get on one of the other evacuation ships.'

'But you're not-,' his eyes burn and his voice is breaking but he doesn't look away, 'but you're not with _us_ , why aren't you coming with _us_.'

'Oh Peter, my little Peter Pan,' she hugs him tight, pulling him in to her chest and he grips his hands in her shirt and tries to take in as much of her as he can.

'Mum we- we have to go.' Dad doesn't sound much better and before Peter can register much his Dad is hugging his Nan with a funny tight look on his face, then he's being pulled by the arm and out of the door, stumbling over his feet as he tries to keep up.

A terse shuttle bus later they get home to his mother already throwing their things into cases and boxes, haphazardly grabbing at e-frames and e-tabs to squash them and their memories safe under piles of their clothes. Peter could help, should help, but all he can do it sit numbly on the floor and cry whilst his life is collected and contained into a few measly bags. The rest will be left.

It doesn't take too long, thankfully, as Peter doesn't know what's worse, wanting to get this over with as fast as possible or wanting to stay and cling to the remnants of the only life he's ever known. As they make their way to the loading bays for the Earth-bound travellers he blearily finds himself thinking about what classes he'll miss in school tomorrow, but then he remembers Nanny and the ordeal starts anew as reality sets back in.

His parents are focused on more practical things.

They stand in line, their few pieces on luggage already being loaded on, and wait to board the ship they were assigned to only yesterday. His mother speaks under her breath, as if she is afraid to talk too loudly for fear of jinxing something. 'The Earth ships aren't even ready. They won't have enough _food_ let alone rooms.'

His father shakes his head and slips his hand down to intertwine with hers. 'They must have known something like this could happen at any time, they've been predicting it for years. If anything, the rooms may not be ready but the agricultural sections will be.' He looks determinedly at the back of the head of the man in front of them and swallows. 'They only give out tickets if there's room. We'll be fine.'

Peter's mother glances his way meaningfully, and then back to his father.

'Jo, there're not enough _ships_ ; no one was ready in time. They can't have planned for everyone.' She bites the inside of her cheek, one hand on Peter's shoulder. Her fingers dig in, hard, but he doesn't try to shrug her off. He can barely feel it.

His father understands. 'She'll call us when she can.' Then, the line moves and they lurch forward together, huddled close.

Just before the door, where the tickets are being checked and where the din of the engines roaring into life starts to become uncomfortable, his father takes one last desperate look at out of the window at the distant domes of their colony, nestled in the dust. He taps an impatient rhythm against the tiled floor. 'She'll call.'

She never does.

* * *

Francis is three and his daddy has just left Mummy.

'He went to fight,' she says as she strokes his hair. This confuses him because fighting is bad and you're only allowed to fight if someone tries to fight you first and no one has been nasty to Daddy that he's seen.

Mummy doesn't answer but continues to stroke his hair, humming softly a tune she sings to him every night before bed that sounds old and sad and sleepy, so he just nods and rests his head heavily against her chest.

He doesn't see his Daddy again.

He is ten when he realises that there never was any war. The notion strikes him dumb one day in the kitchen as he distantly listens to the news playing through the announcer when he helps wash up after dinner. The announcer is speaking about something banal, a fashion show maybe, but Francis is staring out of the window and up at the sky, up at the stars that push through the daytime's thin atmosphere. He doesn't know what caused him to start this train of thought, but once it's started his brain quickly pieces together the puzzle that it has ignored all of this time.

At school they were taught about wars, about age old battles with guns and swords and metal where blood was spilt over land and the wealth it contained. But, there hasn't been any fighting here. He scrubs a glass, sponge squeaking against the side. And even if there was fighting somewhere far away, his dad would surely still be able to write or visit, or come back after all this time. And more importantly, if there was a war going on now then surely he would have learnt about it at school, rather than learning about age old political struggles on the human-ruined home world.

His mother takes the glass from his slack grip. 'Daydreaming?'

He shakes himself to and looks at her. Turned away and out of the window her face is suddenly older and oddly clearer than he remembers it being, she looks like a person rather than just his mother and that's a scary thought. It's as though the wash of childhood has momentarily slipped away and he's now aware of both it and the harsh brushstrokes of reality. She's a person and feels things, just like he does. So it hurts, that she lied, and it will hurt him for a long time because he doesn't know why but cannot for the life of him bring himself to ask her. Francis is good at reading people and he knows that this isn't something he should ask about, so turns back to the dirty dishes and doesn't.

When Francis is fifteen there is a war, of sorts. The planet nearest to them, the one they rely on the most for trade, switches governmental policies and refuses to continue their current agreements. This results in a breakdown of communication and heightened tension between the two colonies, each bristling angrily at the offence yet unwilling to be the first to initiate anything rash. There is minor rationing imposed upon Francis' planet until trade is re-established as well as a draft of specialisation training implemented, just in case. He's unaffected by the rationing; the draft is a different story. Just in case this trade block becomes permanent, his planet needs to be prepared to become fully self sufficient in everything from science, to food, to art, to the army.

The block stays in place and tensions rise. Against his wishes, Francis is assigned a scientific draft. He is now seventeen and knows he needs to be given _something_ but he'd prefer agriculture or education to research, if he could have the choice, or the arts if he's allowed to dream. He isn't. He brain is good, his grades are high and thus he is far more useful to the cause working on the advancement of his planet than working to help feed it.

A few days after his birthday and a month after his posting letter arrives, his mother rides with him on a shuttle to his boarding station. He will try out four different areas: mechanics, medicine, biology, and physics, then he will be assigned to what he works with best, where he can produce the best work possible. But Francis can't think of anything worse than being stuck in a lab all day, shutters drawn and devoid of all personality. Even worse, he's heard the rumours that have managed to float back from those who have graduated and knows that once he boards this ship there's no escaping the life he'll be moulded into. The programme is four years long and then he will be placed into a job where he will stay until he dies. At twenty one he will have no other skills for work other than what he will acquire at the science facility, there is no swapping careers afterwards. He wants to do so much, there is so much that he loves to do, and with each passing shuttle stop his heart grows more frantic, fighting his brain which has accepted the inevitable.

He gets physics. He calls his mother to howl down the phone once, just once, before he realises the futility of doing so; nothing can or will change. Accept it.

At twenty, a year before his training would end, there is finally a truce. Trade resumes and Francis finally tastes sugar after five years but now, after so long, the taste is too much. Not fully qualified yet too old to be automatically accepted into another programme, Francis is in limbo. There isn't much point in him continuing his training, there are more than enough specialists now and not enough jobs to give them, so there isn't anything for him to do. It's odd, now that there is nothing to work towards he feels empty but at the same time everything is just too much. He returns home and his mother fusses and tries to talk to him, tries to get him to come out of his room and sit with her and he did, at first, but the longer he's home the shorter his resistance is and the longer the 'breaks' are in his room.

Emotions seem to be harder to process without a goal, that or he never had many to begin with and without something to distract him from that notion he's finally noticing how few he has. Either way, other people are small insignificant creatures who worry about such useless, banal things. Who did what, with who and where. Did you know, her son the doctor? Well, he's a you know what now and- ugh. Francis can no longer take it.

He doesn't really see this as a problem. He feels as though he's risen above other people and finally understands that such things are not worth his time; why worry, after all, about what job to get. Why worry about whether or not someone likes you. Every day, regardless of what they do, the planet will spin and the domes will reflect the same bleak, churning sky and Francis realises that he's trapped here, by this life and that his life means nothing. None of their lives do, it's all the same; nowhere new to go, nothing new to do. Pick a job, do the job. Come home, go back. Retire. Die.

So he sits in his room, because if he talks to his mother or to anyone else he is reminded that somehow he's supposed to _care_ about it, that life here is supposed to _matter_ to him just as it matters to everyone else. His mother will mention this or that and he'll have to either fake the responses she wants, or not and upset her and neither option sounds pleasing to him.

After years of monotony and training suddenly he is permitted to express again and it's like he's forgotten how, the parts rusty after all the disuse. There are too many emotions and he finds himself forgetting to use them or using the wrong ones because he can't do them automatically any more, for some reason, and reactions that call for an understanding of nuance are just lost to him. Very quickly everything is too much. Food, heat, depth, people, concepts, _everything_.

He hides away but then they stop becoming too much and they shrink and shrivel up and become nothing at all he can feel how empty he is. Nothing can fill the void he's got because he doesn't even know why it's there and he can scarcely tell that there's a problem in the first place. He does knows he's got a problem though, really, knows how serious it is by the way his mother watches him with fearful eyes and baleful glances. She tiptoes tentatively around the house, carefully softening her words and her gentleness feels like a pressure cooker slowly but surely building something that's going to get bigger and hotter and harder to make go away. She avoids talking about it, about how Francis feels or doesn't, and by doing so the problem is allowed to grow, unchecked. Francis doesn't have to act any more, doesn't have to pretend, and so the feelings of apathy grow and grow until they swallow him whole and all he can bring himself to do is sit and stare and the sky, a dark choking yellow.

It feels heavy to look at, like a lid covering everything in his life, all potential, all future, all growth. It just festers and sinks lower and lower still and he sits and watches it for days before he's realised he's done so.

When Francis is twenty-two, his mother breaks. Not that she herself breaks, but her patience does.

'I can't do this any more.' she says. There are tears on her face and Francis watches one slide off and fall onto her collar. 'You need to go.'

Francis appraises her properly, meeting her eyes. She flinches at his gaze but remains resolute in her decision, though her bottom lip quivers. 'There's nothing for you here, we both know that. You don't want to be here, so you need to go.'

'I don't want to be anywhere.' he replies.

She gives him a watery smile. 'I know. That's why, you might as well see if you can want to be somewhere else.' She lifts up her arm and shows him her e-tab, the translucent screen showing a brightly coloured ticket. 'I've bought you a flight. It's Earth, it was declared habitable a few weeks ago.'

Francis knows he should feel something, this is one of those instances when he _knows_ that he should be feeling something but he can't quite imagine what emotion he should give her.

She doesn't seem to expect one. 'It's one way. And this, this is all of my savings, Francis.' Her eyes are wide and her face is suddenly so very very old. 'If you don't want to _be_ any more, at least make that decision once you've seen this. You can't go without seeing this, after all. See this, see it for me and then you can decide, okay?'

Suddenly she looks shocked and runs forward to embrace him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and knocking her e-tab into his face. The garish purple of the ticket burns his eyes. 'Oh Francis.' She sobs into his shoulder and clutches tightly into his shirt. 'Oh Francis it's okay, you can cry if you want to.'

Oh.

He's crying.

* * *

Ludwig is six, and is sick again. The doctors don't know what's wrong with him; they know what's causing it at least but they have no idea _why_. He can't keep food down and every time he tries to stand the world pitches and swims and he can't keep his balance so he never manages to stay up for long before he bonelessly falls to the floor, where he feels no better.

It's the gravity, the doctors say, for some reason he's affected by the gravity. The artificial gravity that he's known all his life; it's as if he's just climbed aboard and his body suffers from relapses where it just can't acclimatise. Where it suddenly realises that something's not quite right and rebels against him for a week or so. This his family already knows, but his mother isn't satisfied with such a lacklustre answer so she takes him to a different doctor every time he suffers another attack just in case one of them is even marginally more competent than the last. These 'episodes', as his mother likes to call them, don't happen all that often, but he seems to have one every ten months or so and they are regular enough to annoy his mother to no end. Ludwig doesn't really know if she's annoyed that no one can fix him or with him himself, Gilbert won't say and normally his big brother talks to pretend that he knows something so his silence worries Ludwig the most.

Mother is a very important person with a very important job: she's a governor of the space station upon which they live and it is very important that Ludwig remembers this. So, when he's laying in bed clutching at his belly and desperately clenching his eyes shut to minimise the swaying, his friends at school think that he is away for a special training academy. Because can you just imagine, the governor of a _space station_ 's son being space sick?

His father doesn't like to call it that because he thinks it's degrading so his mother doesn't, when she thinks Ludwig can't hear, anyway, but Ludwig knows that's what the kids at school would say so he happily keeps mum because it's easier than lying. They don't talk to him much besides, they find him too cold and distant but that's because he's so scared of disgracing his mother further that he can't quite relax fully.

When Ludwig is thirteen his mother, after exhausting all doctors aboard their large floating colony, finally accepts that it's unlikely that this small problem of his is going to go away. Her way of dealing with it is to pretend that it just doesn't happen; during an attack Ludwig is sent to his room where he stays painfully alone with only his books for company whilst she busies herself with her new campaigns. She's running for director now, aiming as high as she can go and there's no room for weak, feeble Ludwig all the way up there.

His brother tries his best to keep him entertained and happy during these times, but Gilbert is healthy, strong, smart; he's everything that Ludwig should also be able to grow up to be and their parents have sent him off to expensive schools which means that he's more often away from home than not. Sometimes Ludwig wonders if they've sent him away because they want Gilbert to be the all around best he can be, or if it's to distance him as much as they can from Ludwig. It's almost as if they're worried that Ludwig will taint him, or that maybe Gilbert will grow too attached to him and distract himself from what's really important. That Ludwig will anchor him down.

At five years older it's highly unlikely that Ludwig will be the one doing the influencing, but his brother, despite hardly seeing each other and such a large age difference, does seem to genuinely care for him. During one particular attack, when Ludwig is eighteen, Gilbert is home from university; it is almost Christmas and his family are preparing to travel to where his grandparents live on the other side of the space station, where they'll spend the holiday. Of course, it is now that his body decides to betray him.

He, his parents, and his brother are gathered around the large dining room table finishing off dinner. It is tense. Mostly it is Gilbert who talks because despite their mother's cool demeanour and their father's lack of interest he seems to always have something to say to fill the silence and speaks easily. Even with the response he gets, or lack of it, he seems honestly unperturbed and remains cheerful, somehow managing to both eat and speak without seeming impolite. As much as he loves his brother, Ludwig is also supremely jealous.

He stares at his fork, contemplating which point in the evening would be best to ask if he could slip away, when his body decides for him. His stomach swoops, his ears pop and the table tilts alarmingly. He clenches the edge in panic to remain upright and the noise alerts his mother, who looks up from her dessert in irritation.

'Ludwig, we are going away tomorrow.'

'M- mother-'

His mother sighs and looks at his father, who sharply stares back. 'Dear?'

His father grunts and spears another forkful of fruit pie. 'They're expecting him to come.'

'But the photographers-'

'What do you want me to do, Hilda?'

Meanwhile, Ludwig has still not been dismissed and cannot now seem to find the words to ask for permission himself without spewing all over the fancy silverware. He doubts that that will make the situation better, somehow. Gilbert notices and stands, attracting his parents' attention.

'I'll take Luddy to his room.'

'Darling...' their mother tries to say something, but it's what she's trying not to say that comes across the loudest.

Gilbert ignores her and walks around the table, slowly helping Ludwig to his feet, then away from the table and swiftly towards a bathroom. They make it just in time. Gilbert pats him comfortingly on the back and rubs soothing circles into his shoulders until he's finished, then hands him a glass of water.

'So, they're still arseholes, huh?'

Ludwig snaps his head up in horror, but this is a bad idea because the image of Gilbert swims before him and he has to shut his eyes.

'Don't call them that.' He finally manages, weakly.

Gilbert tuts. 'What the fuck did they feed you with in order to churn your personality out.'

Ludwig lays his head on the cool tiles of the floor and groans inwardly at how nice the feeling is. 'They're not arseholes.'

'Yeah, and my name's Shirley.'

Ludwig cracks open an eye, but Gilbert's not joking. He is, for once, deadly serious. 'How'd you put up with them Lud?'

Ludwig shrugs and gives a small shake of his head. 'They're our parents, Gil. They still care for me. Besides, I'm not exactly making it easy for them.'

Gilbert looks disgusted. 'You're their fucking _son_ , arsehole. They're supposed to take care of you. They ain't even doing that right are they?' Gilbert runs a hand through his shock of white hair and bits his bottom lip whilst he shakes his head. 'Look at how they treat you versus me.'

'Yes, but I'm not exactly-'

'But nothing!' Gilbert raises his voice slightly and swallows. When he speaks again, he's much quieter, back under control. 'Have they got you in a university programme yet?'

Ludwig's silence is answer enough and Gilbert sighs deeply before brushing back Ludwig's sweaty fringe. 'There's nothing wrong with you Lud.' His brother sounds so very sad. 'Fuck, there's nothing wrong with you at all. They know full well that if they put you on a planet rather than this floating heap of rust that you'll probably be alright. And have they? Have they fuck.'

Ludwig wants to argue against him, wants to say something to stand up for himself if not for their parents but his eyes are suddenly burning and his throat is choked up. He knew a long time ago that his parents had given up on him, but to hear it from someone else hurts more sharply than anything he tells himself.

There's an odd companionable silence for a while; Ludwig lays still with his face against the floor and his brother's hand carding through his hair so he almost misses what Gilbert says next.

'I was gonna wait till Boxing Day, but I've got us tickets for Earth.'

Ludwig tenses and holds his breath. Gilbert continues. 'I was gonna wake you up on the 26th and take you away with me, but I want to tell you now instead, cause you look like shit. We're gonna get out of here Luddy; I've always wanted to take you to a planet and what better one is there than the original, huh?'

'You, I- you _can't-_ what about your studies? The internship you've got?' Ludwig manages to stammer out, opening his eyes.

Gilbert brushes his concerns aside. 'I never liked medicine, really. I've always wanted to go to a planet, so I'm mega up for it.'

Ludwig knows he should say no, knows that he shouldn't take up the offer. He'd be denying his brother so much, he'd be exactly what their parents worried he'd be because he'll only drag Gilbert down and down and down like a heavy lead weight and ruin all of his chances at a good life.

But Ludwig wants to be selfish. He reaches out and clasps onto Gilbert's hand, squeezing it tightly. 'Gil...'

Gilbert flashes him a grin and winks. 'I know, right? How awesome am I?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't do short, can I? This was going to be a one shot, it really really was, but then as I started writing it grew into this monster that now is looking to at least be three chapters long, if not four. Sci-Fi, why do I love thee so?
> 
> Before I get into the context, thank you very much for reading! I don't really have much context planned out in detail for this as to how the earth collapsed, but many centuries ago the human race fled their dying planet and scattered themselves amongst the stars in space ships, each one bound for somewhere different in the hope than even one of them would be able to find somewhere to stay.
> 
> Once the planet is ready for them the remains of the old nations return with their people in dribs and drabs. This story will focus on the four main characters of America, Sealand, Germany, and France and their journeys, each of whom have side characters to interact with as well.
> 
> I found Ludwig the hardest to write. Or, at first I did. I had his story clearly outlined in my head but getting around to writing him was so much more difficult. This is also the first time I've written him (which probably explains it), and it was definitely a challenge compared to the other characters. So I left him till last, wrote him all in one go and, lo' and behold, I fell in love with him and now I love his background the most. The writing also now seems a lot more relatable with a better flow to it too in comparision to Alfred, who I wrote first, but I hope that that's not too obvious.
> 
> Phew! I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it, and thank you for reading this far. The next chapters are in the editing stage, and so will be up soon!
> 
> Please do let me know what you thought, I would love to hear any sort of feedback for this.
> 
> See you soon!


	2. The Journey to Neverland

Morning comes, and Alfred finds himself huddled on the floor of a toilet stall. He was fine up till very recently, having spent the previous night occupied with travelling to where his ship was docked via his dome's rather old shuttle bus. The covers of the seat of the bus had been cracked with age and Alfred had absent mindedly picked at the stuffing whilst he watched his childhood home zip by in a blur of dusty yellow before slipping away into the distance. The Earth-bound ship, his new home for now, was very different in comparison to anything he'd ever seen on the planet before, all bold, sleek lines of monochrome with bright lights and shiny windows that hadn't yet been smeared opaque by the atmosphere. It was _exciting_ , it was different; it was like a dream coming true because there in front of him had been something which represented a future, a very large representation of the possibilities he could find.

He queued up to board and was assigned his room all within the space of a hour and Alfred had quickly unpacked with a frenzy of excitement in his small room. His room mate, a small, quiet man called Kiku, had watched the sudden chaos with an unreadable expression from the bunk he'd retreated to with a book after he had introduced himself. For Alfred, that was all easy. That was all doing something, there was a plan and it needed action and Alfred lost himself in the motions.

But then he'd run out of things to do. Kiku had watched him from the corner of his eye as Alfred grew progressively more anxious, rearranging his things, standing up to stare out of the window, sitting down to his laptop, getting up again, all whilst the feeling of panic took root and bloomed in his chest. It was now, with an empty task list and hours to wait before take off, that Alfred suddenly understood what exactly it was he had just done and was in the process of doing.

He had excused himself for a walk but hadn't got far before all of his anxiety came to a head and he needed to get away from all of the people, away from the windows where he could see the landscape he'd soon be leaving behind without knowing if he'd ever see it again and away from the exits and doors, most of all, because he was half scared that he'd just walk out of one.

He chose the first bathroom he came to and squashed himself on the floors in a stall, pillowing his head in his arms as he squeezed, and still squeezes, his knees in a desperate attempt to calm down and rationalise.

Breathe.

He extracts an arm from where it is hooked under his knee and glances at his watch. It is 10.38am. By now, he should be at work. By now, his parents would be up and assume he is where he is supposed to be, at work now themselves. It took him five hours to get to the ship, so he has until 12pm to board a bus back and get home before them, to pretend that nothing had happened. He has until 12pm before whatever choice he makes becomes the only one he has left. If his parents were to find out, if they were to know where he plans on going or if his job were to get wind of what he is doing then he doesn't think there will be any chance of fixing it completely. His boss and colleagues would consider him a flight risk and which would ruin his chances at moving up the career ladder, his parents would be broken hearted that he had thought about leaving in the first place, not even adding on the hurt that he didn't plan on saying goodbye, and he knows that if he goes home to talk about it with them he'd be talked out of it instantly. He doesn't even think that he'd put up much of a fight.

Alfred buries his face back into his knees and bites on his cheeks, not hard enough to draw blood or cause any real pain but enough for him to focus on. What was he _doing_? Was he really going to throw his whole life away, all of what he'd built and all of what he could have, just like this? On a whim? Because that's what this is, a whim, and he knows it. What if there is nothing waiting for him on earth, what if there isn't anyone who wants him to work in history, what if he can't settle in or make friends or get enough money together to try again; is it worth the risk?

He hears the door to the bathroom open and he stills, breathing slowly through his mouth before carefully going to uncurl himself and move to the toilet where his feet won't be seen.

He's too late. The footsteps of the other person stop on front of the mirrors over the sinks but they quickly start moving again, towards where he's hiding. The footsteps slow down before coming to a stop in front of his door and Alfred watches as the person shifts their weight from one foot to the other, as if they're deciding what to do.

'Hello?' They say in a soft, tentative voice. Alfred knows it's stupid, because the other person, a young man by the sounds of it, obviously knows that he's here, but for a second he thinks that maybe if he doesn't say anything they won't notice him.

'Um, are you okay?' Still Alfred doesn't answer and watches as the person outside his door shifts to the other foot.

'Do you need me to get anyone, or anything?'

'No,' he surprises himself by answering and without his self-control his voice catches before he's able to stop it. He forces himself to speak again, more normally, 'I'll be alright, but thanks! Just ah... just needed to get away for a bit.'

'Cool uh, okay. Me too, you know? It's a lot to think about.'

It's hard to keep up a conversation when one of the participants in locked in a toilet but the other man has that small wobble in his voice that Alfred is trying to cover up in his own and he realises that this guy isn't going to go away any time soon. So, legs beginning to cramp anyway, he shakily gets to his feet and unlocks the door.

The other man is his height and seems to be his age, with shoulder length, wavy blond hair and large round glasses perched on his nose. They're slipping, and he pushes them up as Alfred emerges.

He gives a small smile. 'Hey, glad you're alright. I didn't know whether to disturb you or not, if I'm honest.'

Alfred shakes his and sticks out his hand for the other to take. 'Nah, I'm glad that you did. I was talking myself round in circles in there.'

The man takes it and gives it a quick shake. 'I know the feeling, bit crazy this, eh? I'm Matthew.'

'Alfred.'

Matthew nods at him. 'Nice to meet you. You here with anyone?'

He obviously doesn't mean the bathroom and Alfred swallows the hot flash of loneliness and regret that makes itself known in his throat. 'Nope, all alone! You?'

Matthew ducks his head and shifts his feet again. 'Same.'

'Do you...' Alfred pauses, uncertain if he wants to hear the answer, but he heard the wobble in Matthew's voice and he must be Alfred's age; he must be worried about similar things to what Alfred is so he presses on, 'Can I ask you something kinda personal? Do you think we're doing the right thing, leaving here? I mean it's a long way away and everything and it's not like there's an easy way back.'

Matthew blinks at him and takes a long breath in before answering with a voice filled with unexpected finality. 'Yeah. I mean, I don't know what your reasons are, of course, or what you're giving up, but-' He stares at the spot between Alfred's eyes and continues, 'but we're going to _Earth,_ even if it goes horribly wrong or we don't get what we're going there for, it's Earth, isn't it? It's worth a try.'

It's what Alfred wanted to hear, it's the validation of his selfishness that he needed but it doesn't quite soothe his concerns as much as he had hoped.

Matthew must have noticed, because he tries again, sounding slightly panicked, 'I'm sure you'll be fine though, whatever happens! I mean, I'm going there because I'm hoping to work with all of the animals they've got; my parents warned me that they won't care about that and will probably put me to work on a farm or something but as long as you're fit to work they're not gonna turn us away, right?'

Alfred fights down the euphoric glee trying to become a grin on his face and instead says, 'Yeah, but farms have animals too, right?'

Matthew laughs. 'I bet I'll get trodden to death by a cow.'

Alfred claps him on the back. 'Hey, that sounds like a great way to go! Don't worry, man, I'll write home for you and say it was a elephant, or something. You know, keep your street cred up.'

Matthew rolls his eyes and grins at him. As he jabbers about the elephants that used to live on Earth before the Fall, later on in one of the canteens on their deck where they go for lunch, Alfred notices the clock hit 12 and feels nothing but excitement.

He'll be fine.

* * *

Peter is twelve, and the trip is finally coming to an end. It's been so many years, here on the ship, that if not for the books and videos he sees in school he would have forgotten how the domes and living stations from his home planet looked, now far far away. He thought that he was prepared for the sight of Earth, their species' old home world, he's seen so many photos of it that all he needs to do is hear the name to have it brought up in his mind, as detailed and as clear as anything he's seen with his own eyes. But, nothing could have prepared him for the real thing.

He is sitting in the corridor outside his living quarters. Mum and Dad are arguing, again, and he doesn't really want to be in there right now because he knows that as soon as they see him they'll pretend that nothing's the matter and he thinks that that's probably worse. With a sigh, he gets up, floor too hard to actually sit on for long periods, and goes for a wander around his 'neighbourhood'. As he passes doors of the others living here he wonders what kind of families live inside them: a mum and her kids, an elderly couple, someone young looking for something new, or maybe they're just like him, dragged here because their planet couldn't support them and they took a chance at building something better. A split family with barely anything to their name hurtling towards an unknown utopia.

It's been hard to get news of Earth and of the colony they'll be joining, when their ship stops only to refuel itself, but apparently it's going well. This is a comfort, at least, because not much else is these days. Some people live on space stations or spaceships and nothing else and although Peter finds an odd sort of comfort being surrounded by metal his parents, and many others, do not. Fights and spats amongst the passengers and crew have been increasing in the last few months, especially once everyone knew that they were getting close to the end of the flight. The ship they're on isn't even that small, so maybe it's not cabin fever after all and more impatience that drives the tempers high and tolerance down.

As he gets to a plaza of sorts, (the town square, as it is affectionately known,) he notices a huddle of people clambering over each other to reach and get a look out of the large, expansive windows there. Deciding against trying to force his way through the excited mass he goes forward and off to the side of the huddle to a smaller porthole and gazes out curiously.

What he sees is spellbinding, unlike anything he has ever seen before. It is not difficult to understand what is so interesting. Amongst the glittering, never-ending stars lies the Earth, shining bright and blue and all of a sudden Peter forgets how to breathe. It's _blue_ , more blue than it ever was in the photos from his school books, there are swirls and blurs of greens and browns and whites mixed in all together but there is blue blue _blue_. In no picture did it ever look like this, earth was brown and dead and dry, this wasn't Earth. This wasn't the home humans had ruined, this wasn't what they had left behind. This, this couldn't be Earth, couldn't be his new home because there was so much water and-

Peter is jostled, another boy has pushed him away from the window where he had pressed his face close to the glass to see -his breath still mists the glass- but now he can only see the inky blackness of space from behind the boy's head and so he ducks away from the crowd of bodies and goes off in search of his parents, heart pounding furiously in his ears.

* * *

Francis, and the people he is with, are the first who will arrive on Earth. Their ship will get there the fastest and thus all aboard will be trained in a skill necessary to facilitate the setting up and maintenance of the first colony, distinct from the research bases already dotted about there. His mother must have known, because every adult he encounters are all young and healthy with intelligence and passion. There seems to be a entry requirement, because there are people from other planets besides his own that share the same qualities and all see to be formally trained, in one way or another. For the first time, he is grateful for his drafting.

Francis is happy to learn that he can _pick_ what he wants to learn, out of the options that are available to him, and he chooses geology. The study of the soil and its chemistry isn't what he ever foresaw himself doing, but it seems to fit, somehow. As he learns about the tectonic movements of the earth, how the structure of the planet operates and how this in turn can affect and be affected by the weather, he feels like he's becoming a part of something once more. There is a goal at last, a purpose, and though he still feels as though there's something missing from his life the feeling is lessened by simply working past it; there is something to focus on.

It is lessened more so, maybe, by Arthur. Arthur is the unfortunate man assigned to share Francis' room, sleeping in the bunk above his, and specialising in agriculture. He wants to see the sea, has always wanted to see the sea, and when he talks about the oceans and cliffs and the rocking of far away waves Francis feels a part of himself become alive and real. Despite the nonchalance he coats it in, there is passion in Arthur's voice, there is a drive and a yearning which Francis recognises as one he used to share and to see it reflecting from Arthur's eyes makes his own burn with a longing he can't understand or explain. There is a tugging deep in his stomach and he starts to gaze out of the windows in anticipation, Arthur's voice drifting around his head to settle between his ears.

When Francis is twenty six, they finally get there. The stations below are set up on a nice bit of land close to the sea but also to a freshwater river too; there's fertile fields and dense forests with lots of wild-life and wild fruits and vegetables. He knows all of this before they're allowed down because that's all part of the training and survival lessons they're given. Each member must be capable of pulling their weight in areas other than their specialisation and Francis is now well versed on which plants he can eat and which he can't, how to make simple animal traps and how to catch a fish.

He feels ready to go and is excited to finally get to work and see these fields, seas and forests for himself, excited to see so much that he's only heard about and seen in pictures. And though he says otherwise, Arthur is just as excited, Francis knows, because anytime anything to do with Earth is mentioned he sits a little straighter, comes a little closer, and opens himself up a little bit more to get as much information as he can.

'Do you ever think,' Francis asks him one night, 'about where we're landing?'

Arthur turns over in the bunk above him and the metal creaks under his weight. 'What on earth are you talking about.'

'We're landing on what was once a country,' Francis explains, 'it once had people who had a language and a culture and a history. It's not just land, it was once a _place_ that humans long ago spoke about.'

Arthur offers no further input, so Francis continues. 'It could have been someone's favourite place to go on holiday, or it could have been a small village where children grew up and played, or it could have been the site of a terrible battle from long long ago.'

'It probably _was_ the site of a battle, at least once.' Arthur mutters from his bed.

Francis ignores him. 'It seems like a shame. Whatever is there will be built on by us; it's almost as if we're destroying its history.'

'We're not destroying it,' Arthur's voice is quiet but speaks volumes; he's thought about this before, 'we're adding to it. We're just another story for it to keep.'

Francis laughs and calls him sentimental but regrets it when Arthur throws a well aimed pillow at him.

'Shut it! Now, give that back.'

'No.'

'Francis! Give. it. back.'

'Why? You threw it at _me_ , I did not take it from you.'

'For fuck sake, you utter _waste_ of a human.' He's clambering down and once Francis sees his toes on the rungs of the ladder he rolls onto his belly, trapping the pillow beneath him. Arthur tugs on his shoulder and succeeds in rolling Francis back over but before he can do much else Francis grabs him and pulls him down to the bed. Arthur gives an undignified squawk, his head hits one of the metal frames and he tumbles gracelessly onto Francis' lap.

Francis can't help but laugh. 'Oh Arthur I'm sorry, are you-' but he's stopped by Arthur punching him in the eye, hard, and then there's one of their neighbours hammering on the wall next to Francis' ear, bellowing for them to shut the fuck up already because it's 1 am and some people plan on trying to sleep tonight.

They are taken down in the shuttle the next day in the afternoon. They're not allowed outside yet, they need to adjust to the planet's gravity and get used to the micro bacteria in the air, so they are housed in the Arrivals' building and assigned a room to sleep in for the time being. Francis has a black eye and Arthur has an egg-sized lump on his forehead but they're both too busy staring out of the window at the dazzling sunshine to complain that they've been put together, again.

* * *

Ludwig disappeared with Gilbert two days after his attack. Thanks to his illness though, they both easily convinced their parents that they'd rather stay home than making the trip to their grandparents' house and so they saw them off with ease, Gilbert trying not to grin and Ludwig trying not to give them away with how much he was sweating. As soon as they were alone he and his brother went to their rooms and packed a bag, Ludwig agonising over the situation with himself the whole time. When the day came a still wobbly Ludwig was bundled in his brother's transport pod and they both travelled to their boarding dock. It was so easy to leave.

Maybe that's what Ludwig is hurt most about. Neither parent seemed to care that he couldn't make it to his grandparents', neither parents called to check in one them whilst they were away. They probably wouldn't know anything was wrong until they returned, a few days too late to stop them.

Despite the ease of everything else, the trip itself is horrible. Ludwig's body, having only barely adjusted to his own ship's gravity systems, now finds itself thrust upon a different one and is rebelling angrily against him. The attacks are more frequent now than ever, leaving him unable to work at anything for long before another one knocks him back to bed. Today is one such day, he curls up in his bunk and tries not to complain or let his brother know how bad he feels; Gilbert does enough for him already.

He must have fallen into a daze, because he wakes up in a panic to the sounds of Gilbert kicking the door open and flinging his work bag against the wall with a thud. He tries to sit up but the world pitches alarmingly, so for the good of both of them and the state of their floor he lays back down gingerly. 'Bad day?'

Gilbert snorts and flops down on the floor to tug off his boots. 'I'll fucking say, there was massive electrical surge in one of the computers and it fucked up at least a third of people's personal systems on the ship.'

Ludwig clucks his tongue in sympathy and looks his brother over with concern. Despite looking harried he doesn't seem too worse for wear, but he works far too much in order to support them both and it's tiring him out. However, someone needs to pay for their keep and it sure as hell can't be Ludwig at the moment.

Gilbert catches him staring and glares at him, knowing what he's thinking about. They've been down _that_ particular road before and despite how guilty Ludwig feels he can't get further than simply mentioning the topic before Gilbert either walks away or throws something at him to get him to shut up. The guilt sits on Ludwig like a stone, pushing down on his chest. His brother had a life, had a future, and he gave it all way to become this, an engineer's whipping boy for a brother who can't even sit up most of the time let alone pull his own weight. _Useless._

Gilbert throws a boot at his head and Ludwig yelps. 'Get rid of that look from your face, I'm doing this because I want to, ya hear?'

Ludwig nods, because that's what his brother wants him to do.

'Good. Besides, it wouldn't have been half as bad if the head engineer wasn't such a dick. Rumour is that there's a boy genius on board we picked up at the last stop but when ol' Stevie went to get him to help the boy turned him down.' Gilbert gives a scoff. 'He's got balls, whoever he is. Either that or he's an idiot. Besides, if they'd let me have a look at it I could've probably done it.'

Ludwig rolls his eyes but refrains from saying anything further. He leaves Gilbert to undress and unwind in silence, only speaking to him again once he's sure his brother has relaxed enough.

'What if nothing changes, when we get to Earth.'

Gilbert, from where he's sprawled himself in their chair, visibly stiffens. He's obviously considered this too, then. Maybe the possibility has been on his mind just as much as it's been praying on Ludwig's. How could it not? 'It will.'

'But-'

'It will!' Gilbert has clenched his e-tab tighter, Ludwig can see the whites of his knuckles from here. 'It will, so there's no point worrying about it.'

Ludwig breathes deeply. 'It's something we've got to think about.' He says gently. If not for him, for what Gilbert will do next.

Gilbert curls his lip and refuses to look up. He prods his tab awake with more force than is needed. 'No, it's not. If it don't work, if you still can't do anything more than roll about, then at least you'll be better off than home.'

'I might be, but what about you?'

'What about me?' Finally, Gilbert looks up and he's furious. Gilbert is very free with his emotions, but never has anything negative been directed towards Ludwig before and it startles him. 'You think I was happy back there? Just because I was strong enough for them? Well you're just as fucking stupid as they were if that's so.' He stands up, crosses the room and starts to pull on his boots again.

'Gilbert-'

'You were wasting away there.' Gilbert's voice cuts though Ludwig like a knife because it's the truth, no matter how much he tries to deny it. 'They were happy to let you die if that's what it came to and I somehow was supposed to not care about that. It was fine, right? As long as they had one of us. But that meant I had to be everything, Lud. I had to be both of us and both of us had to be fucking perfect.'

Gilbert looks at him, curled up pathetically in bed and shakes his head at him, face unreadable. 'What kind of life is that?'

Boots on he wrenches open the door and walks out with a bang, leaving Ludwig mortified. How selfish of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, chapter 2! Thank you to everyone who left me such lovely comments, they really made my day reading them! We've now got the whole cast of characters introduced and they're finally off on their way, though not all at the same time.
> 
> Thank you for reading, feedback really does make my day :)


	3. A World In Orbit

 A World In Orbit

Someone, he would love to know who, found out at some point after their ship had set off from where he boarded that Alfred has a background in engineering. Once this fatal slip occurred it was only a matter of time for someone else to go digging for his name through all of the records out there, through the collections shared by each and every human colony, and find his qualifications and work history. That was that, in their eyes.

Now they, they being anyone who needs anything fixing or mending, won't stop bugging him, trying to cajole him into moving division and come and work in engineering again. Even the head of engineering for the ship himself comes to ask after him personally for a big job that needs doing.

'I don't understand!' the man waves his arm angrily, in frustration, and frowns at Alfred who slouches lower in his chair, refusing to make eye contact. Matthew sits stiffly in the alcove in the corner, unnoticed, and observes the proceedings with mounting apprehension.

'With your skills you're set for life! Heck, I'd give you a permanent position on this ship with the experience you're sitting on! I'm not even asking for much, not for someone like you.'

With that, Alfred reacts. 'Someone like me? What's that supposed to mean?'

'Someone as gifted as you! I've heard all about what you've done and where you've worked. You being from where you're from is enough, not many planets specialise kids like that, you know. You're practically a gold mine just in and of yourself.'

Alfred bites his lip, tastes the disappointment. He imagines his parents, his teachers, and tries to keep his own wants in mind in the face of such familiar, haunting logic.

The head of engineering takes Alfred's silence as a rejection and tries again. 'Look, I'm not asking you to work for me forever, and I'll pay you well for this time. I'll even put in a good word for you for further work on Earth, if it goes to plan.'

It's tempting, the stability of a job is promising, but Alfred has been in this particular cycle before and knows the routine, one job leads to another which leads to another and before you know it, life has passed you by. Well, Alfred broke out once, he's not planning on going back.

He shakes his head but concedes to look the other man in the eyes, giving him to respect he's entitled to. He is, after all, not at fault here, he's right to be confused.

'Sorry, I appreciate the offer, really, but I'm done with that line of work.'

The man shakes his head and sighs. He has the grace to accept Alfred's answer, but it seems that he won't go down without causing as much damage as he can. Maybe it's as if by making Alfred doubt himself he can mop up and salvage the damaged pieces. 'There's nothing for ya in history, you know that, right? They need man power down there; they've got a colony to stabilise-' _stable stable stable_ '-and they're gonna need people to do _real_ work. Essential stuff. What's digging about in some dirt gonna do for them?'

It's nothing Alfred hasn't heard before, nothing that he doesn't already think to himself at night as he lays in the quiet, but it's sharp nonetheless.

Seed hopefully planted, the engineer leaves. After a beat of silence Matthew gets up and sidles over to sit besides Alfred before turning to him indignantly.

'Fuck him.' Matthew is rarely this outspoken and Alfred blinks at him in surprise. 'Who gave him the right to decide what's essential? They've already got all the 'essential' people down there otherwise the colony would have failed. Well, it hasn't, has it? So there's room for people like us, too.'

Alfred suddenly understands, it's not just Alfred Matthew is speaking for, but for himself as well. The understanding of animals does not a colony make, who needs information about bears when there's food needing to be grown?

'We benefit mankind in other ways, Alfred. And you know, if it doesn't work then we do something else. But you fixing whatever he's fucked up on this ship does not change that, so screw him.'

Alfred looks, looks for a sign that perhaps Matthew is saying all this only to convince himself or to make himself feel better about his own decisions, but Alfred finds nothing but sincerity and true belief. He gives him a beaming smile. 'There's a reason I like you, Matt.'

Matthew blushes and his lips twitch, but his face remains just as serious as he waits for a response. Alfred laughs loudly, claps him on the back and then stands, pulling Matthew up with him. 'Come one, let's get dinner. I'll buy! And you're right, we're gonna be just fine.'

Despite his bravado, that night the engineers words are hissed in his parents' voices and he dreams of cables and rivets curling out of the ancient bones in the dirt to drag him down to join them.

* * *

 

Being on Earth is simultaneously the best and worst thing Peter can think of which could have happened to him.

After so long on a ship and so long before that in the confined spaces of domes and tunnels Peter doesn't quite know what to do with himself when he's finally allowed outside to see what had previously been just a far off hope. It's weird, when he was younger he'd never thought of himself as being restricted in any way, everywhere always had enough room and his school playground was huge, big enough to run in and host multiple games at once. But now he realises that his preconception of what 'large' really meant is well off. Earth is _huge_. It is huge, and he knows that whilst the patch of land which makes up their colony is small in the grand scheme of things it's still more room than he's ever dared to think about before. The fields around him go on forever, the sky stretches up to unimaginable heights and there's so much colour and sound to take in that Peter almost feels detached from it all as his senses are overloaded.

Despite all of this, despite once again having a home, despite his dream coming true and despite his long journey finally being over, Peter finds himself slightly disappointed, he supposes, or just too accepting of everything, and this makes him feel irrevocably guilty. It's not a normal reaction, he's on _Earth_ after all, and he worries that maybe there's something wrong with him; everyone else seems to drink the outside in with hungry eyes and beaming faces and although he's overjoyed he's not as happy as he thought he'd be, like there's something missing but nothing that he can put his finger on. Even his parents are joyful, they haven't argued since they disembarked from the shuttle and are spending their free time eagerly planning on how they'll decorate their new house, once they're finally given one.

They're sitting in the communal canteen of the Arrivals' house and looking at housing options on his dad's e-tab, his mother leaning over the table and swiping through the gallery and she looks so carefree and relaxed lately that Peter hasn't yet been able to bring himself to talk to her about how he feels. Besides, he worries about what she'd say, or think. Despite not liking how he feels, and although he knows that this isn't usual, he doesn't want to make them think that he doesn't appreciate where he is or that he's being difficult. After all, he _is_ happy. But...

'Peter?'

Peter looks up at his dad's voice to find his father staring at him slightly concerned. He realises that he's stirring the cereal-less leftover milk in his bowl aimlessly and hastily drops his spoon.

His father gives him a wary smile. 'You doing okay there, Petey-boy?'

Peter nods. 'Yeah, just tired.'

His parents share a look and his mother shifts to face him. 'Peter, we know that we've been a bit preoccupied with the house lately and, well, we've been thinking about how we can make it up to you.'

His father nods enthusiastically, 'Yep, I know we've not really been anywhere yet and me and your mother were thinking, how would you like to go on a short trip?'

Peter frowns. 'A trip?'

'Just a short one,' his mother adds, 'Only for a few days.'

'And not too far.' His father interjects.

'And not too far. But you've been so good about all of this that we feel as though you deserve something special. You always did say you liked to see the ocean-'

_Ah._

'-so we were talking about going to the beach and camping out there by the shore. It's not too far away, I know, but it'll be a nice change from the colony buildings, hmm?'

His dad winks at him. 'What do you say? Fancy it?'

He can _see_ it, he can see the waves and the colours and how the spray is lifted by the wind; smells the salt in the air and tastes it on his tongue as sea birds screech overhead and the water roars.

'Peter?'

'Yes!' His voice is too loud, a couple from the table over look their way curiously but Peter _doesn't care._

'Yes! Please, I'd love to go, can we go soon? Will we stay there the whole time? By the sea?'

His parents chuckle good naturedly and tell him yes, next weekend and yes, right by the sea, and then, just as if the conversation never happened, they go back to looking at window sizes and colour schemes whilst Peter sits there dumbstruck.

The sea. The sea, the sea, the sea, oh God how had he forgotten the sea. Everything here was so green and there were so many other new things to look at that it had completely slipped his mind that of _course_ the sea, he needed to see the ocean. The thing is, he didn't realise that he'd needed it that much, didn't realise he cared so deeply or longed for it so much, but his heart thumps quickly at the idea of the blue blue water and he knows that that's what he mainly thought of when he used to dream of Earth.

Not the land, but the sea.

* * *

 

When he's finally allowed outside, Francis really doesn't know what to look at or touch first. It's so _bright_ , he could never have even dreamt that sunlight could be like this; the colours are the same but the hues and tones and so vibrant and there's so much to see that Francis just staggers to a stop, arms dangling limply by his side as Arthur disappears into a tide of plants.

The light dances and bounces off dust in the air and he's surrounded by movement no matter how still it is because there's always a glint or a shine and there's so much to take in that his eyes don't know where to look and stay, so he settles for spinning about in a dizzy attempt to take in it all. He goes back in after a good hour of mindlessly ambling and grabs his camera, and over several trips outside, when he's finally not working, he takes photos to capture it all; the way the light hits a tree and spills over the ridges in the bark, the way the shadows collect behind the bumps and dips in the stone, the way the light catches the green in Arthur's eyes as he stares out to the sea which borders the rocky cliffs he likes to sit on.

He buys more e-frames than he needs and puts the photos' data inside to hang up. Arthur scoffs at this because one, you can put unlimited photos in an e-frame, stupid, and because two, he hasn't yet got a house to hang them in. He's got his little bunk in the room he shares with Arthur at the landing site but the civilian homes aren't yet ready to accommodate everyone and who knows how long he'll have to wait for one of his own; unmarried and childless he's certainly not a priority. But Francis doesn't care, instead he takes more photos and buys more frames and Arthur starts to find them huddled in _his_ drawers now too, sat proudly atop his socks and clothes.

Arthur can't really complain too much though, because he likes to collect flowers. Francis thinks that _that_ is stupid because the flowers die and by picking them you're technically ruining the _point_ of flowers but he keeps quiet because when Arthur comes back after a day of flower foraging he has this silly little smile on his face that Francis has about five photos of, all tucked into one, well hidden, e-frame.

The one day, when Francis is at work, huddled in with soil deposits, he gets a call from an emotional sounding Arthur. Immediately, he panics because if Arthur displays any sort of intense emotion there's usually cause for concern and at the moment Arthur breathless with _something_.

'I've got a house!'

Suddenly, the air is sucked out of him. 'What?'

Arthur gives a light, airy laugh, he can't find the words to adequately express all that he is feeling but he is so happy; Francis can hear _that_ clearly enough. 'I got a house. Fuck, Francis- I got a house.'

Francis leans heavily against the wall, he is in the corridor of the geology building, where he'd run to when Arthur called. His tongue feels thick in his mouth, moving it is hard. 'Congratulations. Why'- _why you, why you and not me, don't leave me behind_ ' _-_ how did you get one so quickly?'

Arthur snorts dismissively. 'God knows, I applied the same time as you.'

Why does this hurt him so much? Why is this so hard to deal with? They'd both applied, Francis himself had been the one to collect the forms for them both from the Commons building so why did the prospect of it actually happening cause him to feel as though he'd just swallowed a brick?

'When do you get to move in?' He manages through a jaw made of stone. He can't seem to move his eyes from the window; a bird sits on a branch on the tree to the right and the sun glints on its eyes as it turns and Francis- Francis can't, he-

'We're allowed to next week, but we can go and have a look at it tomorrow.'

'We?'

There's a choking sound and Arthur doesn't speak for a while. Francis has to prod him to make sure he's still there. 'Arthur?'

'I- I mean, well I wasn't going to say it _now_ and I suppose it doesn't really matter either way if you don't want, but I was thinking, you know, because it already _works_ , as it is, our housing situation that is, so it makes sense to but of course it's up to you-'

'Arthur,' despite himself, despite his brain screaming at him not to jump to conclusions, there's a smile on his face and Francis finds himself daring to wonder if maybe... 'Arthur are you asking me to move in with you?'

There's a funny little noise on the other end. 'W-well I'm not asking anything, I'm just _saying_ that seeing as we already manage to live together without killing each other that it would help other people who are waiting for a house, if we shared one, that is. Not that I'm expecting you to say yes, of course, but-'

'I'd love to.' Francis can't stop himself from grinning and ducks his face down to stare at his shoes in case any of his colleagues see him looking so giddy.

'Well,' starts Arthur, 'good, I suppose.' A pregnant pause. 'Bye.'

With that, he's gone and Francis is left alone, smiling stupidly at his feet.

They move in together, into their nice little house, and despite there being two bedrooms and despite what he had said, Arthur sleeps in the same bed as Francis does; there are flowers in the kitchen and e-frames everywhere and Francis feels that void inside of him shrink and close, little by little.

* * *

 

After two years of being mostly feeling as though his legs have turned to jelly and his stomach lead, Ludwig is more than a little overwhelmed to hear that they're going to be landing within days. He hears about it over the intercom and on his e-tab newsfeed before Gilbert bursts through the door with delighted whoops. His brother never had been good at being cooped up, on the space station at least he could take his shuttle and go on drives with his friends but on a big voyage with a time constraint like this all commercial travel has been stopped, lest anyone get left behind. Not that Gilbert has had enough time to himself do so anything of the sort anyway.

Despite Gilbert's infectious enthusiasm and glee, Ludwig can't quite stop worrying about what if. What if they've come all this way for nothing? What if, after all Gilbert has given up, despite what he says about the matter, he can find no rest on Earth either?

He doesn't have much chance to worry too much though because before he knows it they've stopped and Gilbert is throwing things into cases whilst Ludwig does his bit folding clothes and generally tidying up after the whirlwind his brother leaves behind.

The day they're moved from ship to shuttle, belongings already sent ahead, is luckily a good day. Ludwig and his stomach feel perfectly fine, well enough to stay and move about as normal, and more than capable of pulling his brother back from where he tries to crane over people's heads to get to the window. He pulls him down to sit and wait, legs jittery and foot jumping where he's resting it on his knee.

Gilbert looks first at it, then at him, and grips his shoulder tightly. 'It'll be awesome, you'll see.'

'Hmm.' Ludwig's sure it will and Gilbert's right, if nothing else just seeing and experiencing Earth is worth coming all this way. But he hopes that's not the only thing that they gain from this.

Gilbert understands and doesn't press him for more, instead he claps him on the back and then manages to control himself and sit still, letting Ludwig process things in his own time.

All too soon, the clouds obscuring the view from the windows clear to show expanses of green growing ever larger. A collective gasp goes up from the people in the shuttle as people catch sight of it and Ludwig momentarily forgets to be concerned because he himself is drawn in by the sight. Such a colour, and so much of it; how anything can be this beautiful is beyond him. He comes to his senses because Gilbert is breathing noisily in his ear where he's leant into Ludwig's space to see.

He turns to brush him away in irritation and there it is; a jolt and they've landed.

There's silence. No one knows quite what to do, it's not quite registered yet and so everyone just sits spellbound in their seats, hands gripping whomever's next to them. Their driver, or one of them, opens the door to the passenger cabin and informs them that they can disembark and suddenly there's a massive scramble of movement as people rush to the doors. Gilbert and Ludwig wait for the worst to pass and then they stand cautiously before making their way to the door. Gilbert goes first and Ludwig stands still, watching for a second before stepping out of the door, away from artificial gravity and onto solid ground.

_Oh._

Ludwig gasps sharply. There's such a pressure, such a force pushing him to the ground that it takes him a moment to balance himself. Looking up he can see people ahead of him staggering into the Arrival's building, legs bent and head bowed to watch their toes. Gilbert is no better, he is picking up one leg at a time, lifting it high experimentally before placing it back down again and moving forward. He looks like he's just shat himself from the back, but when he stops and spins about to search for Ludwig the look on his face is ecstatic.

Ludwig grins back giddily because he's aware, all at once like a light turning on, that he feels amazing. More than that, he feels invincible. His legs are already aching with the stain and want to buckle beneath him but his stomach, his blessed fucking stomach is steadier than he's ever felt it. Is this how people are supposed to feel? Is this how people feel everyday; what 'normal' feels like? He swings his head to look behind him at their shuttle, then back to Gilbert and laughs out loud because the Earth _stays still._ It doesn't swing and pitch, his head doesn't buzz and his stomach doesn't turn not even slightly and Ludwig throws back his head and laughs.

Gilbert comes rushing back to him, or as fast as rushing his legs can currently do for him, and tackles him into a tight hug, shaking him from side to side and squeezing the air out of him.

'Yeah? Yeah?'

Ludwig presses his wet eyes and smile into his brother's shoulder and manages a soft, watery, 'yeah.'

Gilbert sniffs wetly and releases one arm to scrub at his eyes. ' _Fuck._ Fuck Lud, that's awesome.'

Ludwig doesn't even try to compose himself. 'Yeah.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter to go! Thank you everyone who has left me such lovely reviews and thank you as well to anyone else who is reading this, hopefully I'll see you all soon.


	4. Finding Your Feet

Alfred and the ship he's with arrive, at long last, when Alfred is nineteen. He is herded from ship to shuttle, to tunnel to building, until he's left alone in the Arrivals' house. There he can at long last press his face against the window to stare at the view outside.

The waiting burns, he's so close yet so far because the wind blows at the trees (trees!) and plants so that they bend and sway but he himself cannot yet feel it. It's torture, the wait, and it's as bad for Matthew who twitches at the sight of a bird and rushes to a window whenever someone claims to have seen a rabbit. But eventually, they're released into the open and _God_ this was worth it. Even if he has to get a job in engineering in the end and never gets to do anything he wanted to do, there is the earth beneath his feet and the wind, the blessed wind, in his hair and he's never felt more alive.

It smells so much more real than anything ever has done before. He didn't even consider the concept of smell until he was assaulted by such a variety. The winds carry it all: the smell of rain, the plants, and the sun cooked dirt which floats up as he steps. There's so much detail that when he tries to remember his life before, the only other life he's ever known, it feels flat and false. There is so little similarity between the two worlds that it's almost as if he's died to be reborn here as someone new.

The wind is one thing, the wind he knew to expect. The detail always eluded him, but he knew enough to yearn for it. The sheer amount of space there would be awaiting him outside was a similar shock. Alfred had known that Earth was going to be bigger and wider than any space he'd been in before but it was hard to imagine something you'd never seen. He had some idea, at least, and although the sprawling lands which greeted him were above and beyond his wildest dreams he wasn't surprised, simply in awe of their vastness.

What did shock him though, terrify him even, was that no one had bothered to tell him about the _sky._ The first time he thought to look up he his head spun enough that he had to sit down in the soft grass to calm himself down. It just kept going, up and up and up to where Alfred couldn't see but knew there to be more space and air and then beyond that more and more and _more_. He'd never seen sky before, not that high at least. Some of the domes of his home planet were clear enough to see out of, but they were grimy and opaque. Thick, unmoving clouds hung so low that they were only slightly higher than the domes themselves; there was never a view. Looking up at the endless skies of Earth for the first time made him feel as though he was going to tip and fall up into them, gravity being the only thing anchoring him from drifting away to the stars.

Luckily, the engineer, his parents and that little inner voice in his head are all wrong, they _do_ want historians here. Earth is different, here the people aren't survivors of a tragedy running from self destruction, Earth is full of people who have left that all behind to build again. Alfred finds so many people who like so many different and unnecessary things - hell, he's heard of a guy to likes to plant and collect _flowers._ Here people aren't fighting to preserve themselves, they are building anew and so Alfred quickly finds work under the never-ending skies, collecting the past as others plan their future.

He's out on the open plains and it's everything he's ever dreamt of and so much more. The wind grabs at him and tugs and, if he wanted to, Alfred could follow it for miles and miles until his body drops him into the grass, exhausted but happy.

The excavation team he works with start close to the colony and Alfred likes to come at night, alone save for the wind and the overhanging stars. Tonight he chooses a plot and begins a new hole, marking out the boundaries before sinking to his knees and carefully scraping the top layer away to see if there's anything underneath. He digs up the memories of the past as he gazes up to a blanket of starlight and he can't remember a time where he felt this complete. He feels free and full and _right_ and he calls Mattie that night to tell him. Even though he's off somewhere, roaming about to track whatever animal he's researching, Matthew answers, as he always does, and understands him perfectly because he feels exactly the same way. A distant dream becoming a concrete, tangible reality.

It's funny, because this place is so new and he's so young compared to some, but he feels so _whole_ here, as though he's come home after a few years away. It's so familiar, it connects to him in such a way that he can't feel anything for his parents and what his leaving probably did to them. He does feel guilt because he does love them, a feeling which even then rarely causes him trouble, but not guilt for leaving because he's finally free. Back on his old planet was a life for them, for others, but not for him.

He closes his eyes and thinks about blue flowers and large statues of stone, of ships and red coats flapping over a green meadow.

He smiles.

* * *

Peter hasn't felt this excited in a long time. His parents have hired a shuttle for the weekend, as well as a family sized tent, and he spends all of Thursday night buzzing with anticipation. Even the ride there is torture, as short as it is, because where they're going is starting to sink in more. He's too busy daydreaming to pay attention to the meadows and fields as they pass by outside - something he'd usually do.

He's been doing some research, ever since his parents mentioned their plan, and Peter's familiarised himself with the coastline and what to expect. His dad got a tip off some someone at work that there's a good viewpoint nearby. On the beach nearest to where they'll be staying, if they continue north a bit more, they'll find a small, gritty beach that no one else really goes to. It's too shingley for sunbathing and too rough underfoot for walking long distances, but the beach lies in the shadow of some pretty impressive cliffs that loom over the shoreline, jutting into the sky in a almost dead straight vertical drop.

As soon as he steps out of the shuttle the smell of the salt in the air hits him. He takes a deep breath in, savouring the difference and feeling happier than he ever thought he could feel. His dad's colleague, Francis, is there to meet them. He and his partner like to come every other weekend and it's their site that they're lending to Peter's family, as well as some of their equipment. Peter thus must first endure the obligatory introductions before he's allowed to run off and explore.

He's starting to fidget with impatience, despite his best efforts, by the time he's set free. Shouting a promise not to stray too far to his parents he tears off, down a small path which leads him straight to the sea. It opens up before him, stretching as far as his eye can see and wider than anything he'd ever imagined and _oh_ how blue it is. It's powerful in its serenity, calm and still, and the sight of it makes Peter giddy. He gazes out at the horizon and finds himself searching, oddly, for something out there. It's as if his gaze is pulled out that way, looking for something to break where the sky kisses the ocean but nothing does and he doesn't dwell on it for too long.

He rushes to where the waves lap at the shore and is content, finally, to merely sit and take it all in. His parents find him not too long later and once they've all had their fill of the view they go for a walk, up to top of the mighty cliffs above them. It's up there that Peter realises that he loves it here, loves this place, loves the sea, loves this _planet_ and the weekend passes by on a cloud of bliss.

On their final evening there, Peter once more goes to the cliff edge to watch the sunset. It's a cloudless night with a warm breeze and Peter wants to drink in as much as he can before he's forced to leave it all behind. He's found a perfect space up there now, right by the edge there's a rock with a nice smoothed surface that's perfect for laying on. He makes himself comfortable, stretching out languidly.

A gull caws and the sun starts to dip and Peter takes in a lungful of deliciously salty air.

'Hey!'

Peter jolts. There are fast approaching footsteps behind him.

'Get way from the edge! Does anyone know you're up here?'

The voice sounds like typical adult panicking and Peter knows from experience that ignoring it never ends well. Quickly sliding off the rock, he sighs and turns to face whoever it is that's disturbed him, ready to defend his freedom.

There's a man very close to him now, young looking and clutching the strap of a bag which is slung over one shoulder.

The man jogs the last part of the distance between then before stopping not too far off. He shakes his head and adjusts his bag. 'This whole area is known for erosion, you know. You can sit here but just not so close to the edge.'

Peter looks up to meet his face at the same moment the man focuses on his eyes and it hits him like a lightning bolt that the man looks just like him: same eye shape, same facial structure and even the same eyebrows. But not only that, now that he's closer Peter recognises his voice as the one he's been hearing in his dreams for years. The voice that spoke unfamiliar languages and always seemed to voice-over the stories in his head belongs to this man. He knows, indisputably, and upon this realisation Peter feels as though he has separated from himself, almost. It's as if his body has filled with lead, he can't feel to move and everything feels so very heavy. He can't look away, he can't breathe, he can't _think._

The man suffers a similar reaction, stumbling to a halt his body freezes as he stares at Peter in disbelief, mouth agape. There's a intense pause as they drink each other's features in, the shape of the jaw, the curve of the mouth, the _eyebrows_. Peter looks more like this man than he does his own father and the realisation hits him oddly because it's obviously a coincidence but it doesn't feel like that. It feels as though a triangle is being desperately forced through a square hole; nothing fits, but yet that's where it's supposed to go, _needs_ to go. He knows intrinsically that this is something, this is _important_ but he doesn't know why because it won't fit in his brain enough to be understood.

He can't make sense of anything and thinking clearly is hard because the man looks him in the eye again almost knowingly, mouthing the shape of what could be his name in a question and it then becomes impossible to think at all.

He steps back, barely feeling the movement but he crunches a leaf underfoot and the spell breaks. The crash of the tide reaches his ears, he takes in a lungful of salty air and manages to snap his mouth shut. Without looking back, he tears himself away and runs back to camp and away from this strange man with the pained, confused look in his eyes.

He runs because there's something bigger here, something he doesn't understand. It was heavy all around in the air between them, waiting to be noticed, but the very idea of going back and confronting it scares him and quickens to his stride into a sprint. He doesn't understand what's going on, he doesn't want to know but he doesn't know _why_ he feels like this, only that he needs to get away before his head explodes.

The man doesn't follow him back to his camp. Peter runs breathlessly to his parents, buries himself into his mother's waiting arms and presses against her, heart beating against his chest. The man is gone and the moment has passed but their encounter doesn't leave Peter be. Instead it replays over and over and there's still that _something_ at the forefront of his mind which whispers stories into his dreams.

Peter dreams that his legs reach down deep into the ocean, right to the sea bottom, and he watches the years pass silently by. Cast in metal and garbed in rust he falls, piece by piece, into an unforgiving sea. He dreams of rain, of smoking guns and angry curses, of abandonment and loneliness as he's left behind. He tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable, as wisps of memory lap gently against his consciousness.

He dreams of a gruff voice mumbling soothing words after a nightmare, handmade toys and a warm calloused hand carding through his hair. Hot tea and biscuits in front of a fire. Bedtime stories and scratchy kisses.

Of a man who loves him but who just doesn't know how to do it the way Peter needs.

He wakes with dried tear tracks on his face and the ghost of a name on the tip of his tongue.

* * *

As Francis comes home from work one day he decides to bypass his usual route through the corn field to veer towards the forest's edge instead. It's a longer way back but the weather is fine, so he ambles along the little dirt track which has grown from underneath curious feet. A 'desire path', he's heard it called; made from where people want to go, rather than where they should and the name is fitting on this strange, wild planet.

Two runners cross in front of him, sweat glistening off their foreheads, and Francis watches in brief fascination as he lets them pass, one with odd white hair speeding up to fly ahead. Then he turns a corner and, over a small knoll, the top of Arthur's head comes into view in front of the forest. Francis slows because Arthur looks as though he's very deep in concentration and a bow is dangling lax in his grip. A good way ahead of him, in the thicket of trees, a fat, broad oak is studded with arrows. He must be practising how to hunt with archery again, Francis notes. He knows that Arthur favours the bow and likes to go out and practise alone somewhere but until now he never realised how seriously he was taking it. Francis himself isn't bad at the weapon and he uses it when he has to, but prefers traps and hidden spike holes to catch his supper.

Arthur has been more subdued lately. Ever since their last visit to the seaside he's been brooding over something, although he won't divulge anything useful to Francis. He's _fine,_ stop asking. Nothing happened, go make dinner. But something obviously did happen and now Arthur is distracted, he's trying to understand a puzzle and it's complicated enough to muzzle him. Francis is worried about him because Arthur silent and sad is never a good thing. Francis isn't a stranger to the feeling that wears melancholy like a cloak, after all, but he also knows not to press. If Arthur fears anything, he fears being mocked and he likes to be sure about things before gives in to any opinion. Arthur will tell him when he's figured out what he wants to say.

Maybe that is why he has taken to practising archery more. As Francis watches, Arthur releases a breath and reaches back to take an arrow from his quiver before readjusting his grip and setting the weapon ready. There's a brief wait, a second of thought, before Arthur swings back a leg and, in the same fluid movement, raises the bow. As one arm goes rigid in front of him the light glints on the arrow head and catches Francis' eye just _so_ and there -

There before him is a different Arthur from a different time, young and skinny and dangerously agile. His clothing is of a style Francis doesn't recognise but which feels familiar and he knows that, despite his youthful appearance, Arthur is a brilliant shot. Don't move, just watch, lest he see and aim for Francis' head instead of his target.

Something is wrong. Something is _right;_ this isn't the Arthur that Francis knows but someone else, someone older and younger all at the same time. Across from him is someone Francis doesn't know but has known all his life, for all of a long long life that he hasn't actually lived.

Today melts away, colours shift and memories of another life flood into his mind to overtake all else. He is visiting his young little friend, who's no longer so young nor so little, but someone who is finding his feet on the world stage and who swears he can beat Francis in anything. He wants to prove himself and Francis laughs because he looks so _silly,_ with his big oversized bow. Arthur stamps his foot, frustration colouring his cheeks a nice rosy red and before Francis can compose himself the boy has turned on his heel and stomped away. He follows not too long after because he's curious, if nothing else.

Francis finds him easily enough; stood alone in a field by a thicket of trees, bow in his arm. As he comes within a few yards of him the sun catches the tips of Arthur's hair and crowns him in a halo of gold whilst he notches an arrow. Suddenly, Francis is struck dazed in the fields of ancient England, watching as there before him Arthur stands caught in that awkward stage of being bound between a boy and a man. He pulls his shoulder back to aim with a lazy confidence, gangly arms tensing under a coarse shirt. His eyes narrow, mouth purses and then suddenly Francis can see, can see what man he will become as his face hardens in concentration and ages him. His muscles tighten, standing out and pushing their way from under baby fat and then he releases the arrow. A whistle, a thunk. Target hit.

A storm of arrows floods his vision and ears with their whistles; shadows of a future or memories of a past they strike him with terror and Francis-

-Francis wakes up to today. He blinks awake to his Arthur standing over him, face unusually concerned as he drips water from his bottle onto Francis' face. Francis is on his back, the ground is hard, and he has no idea how he got there.

* * *

Never in his wildest dreams did Ludwig ever imagine that he could feel like this. As soon as his legs settled and his muscles acclimatised themselves to the gravity they immediately start to grow. His appetite increases ten fold and he quickly thickens out, most of it going to the meat on his arms, legs and chest. He finds himself bumping into doorways and breaking things because he's suddenly lost track of where his limbs end and how much power they actually have. It's better than he could have ever hoped for, better than he ever thought possible for someone as thin and weak as he was but here he is, stronger with every passing day.

Gilbert, in shock and bewilderment, watches as his previously little brother grows to tower over him, turning into a thick-set giant with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. They'd both never considered what Ludwig would do when they arrived on Earth, more concerned with what affects he would feel once they landed. So now neither of them really know what he's capable of doing. Ludwig tentatively signs up for building work as it's the only thing he really knows -being bedridden often meant that he had a lot of time to study numbers- and finds that he's well suited for it. Not at first, when he's still delicately remembering how to walk without falling over his strangely too-heavy feet, but after. Once he's finally allowed outside, he and Gilbert start going on runs to build up their muscles and his limbs start to do more of what he wants from them.

These runs become a tradition. Come rain or shine after work ends Ludwig will leave his tools behind and go to hunt for his brother in the labs, pulling him into the sunshine and off for exercise. Gilbert has bulked up too, but nothing compared to Ludwig. It's strange that now that it's Ludwig getting his brother to move, that it is he who is reminding his brother to keep healthy. Gilbert seems happy despite the slight role reversal, thankfully. His pallid skins glows more healthily and the bags disappear from beneath his eyes. This has been good, for both of them.

On one of these runs Gilbert decides to run off. Or, not run off exactly but he was leading them and despite being smaller than Ludwig he was still much much faster. Enjoying himself too much to pay attention, Ludwig finds himself alone jogging through a field, still close enough to the colony to not be concerned but in new enough territory than Gilbert could have gone anywhere. Ludwig huffs but doesn't mind overly much; he'll find him eventually.

He continues on going straight, feet pounding against the land, and enjoys the feeling of the Earth pushing him back. All he really needed, all that time, was just to be on the ground, to feel the weight of a world under him and he could have been all that his parents wanted him to be. Thankfully, because of their dismissal of him he can now be all that _he_ wants to be instead.

The day is sunny. It had rained that morning and the air is heavy with the smell of the ground as it cooks under the heat. As he runs he keeps his pace even and smooth, a _oof oof oof_ with his boots as he goes and he can feel the blood in his veins, feel the release and constriction of his muscles. He feels so in tune, so at ease with his body and its rhythm that trying to remember how weak he used to feel is difficult because the notion is so far removed from his life now that it's laughable. He does almost wish that his mother could be here to see him now, so that he could know what her reaction would be.

He skirts around the corner of the field and then he finally catches sight of his brother out of the corner of his eye, sat by a large pit. As Ludwig gets closer he notes that something's not right, his brother's head is bent and his back is curled inwards, arms resting heavily on his knees. He sprints the last few feet and comes up behind Gilbert to see what's wrong.

He doesn't see anything immediately alarming, which settles him slightly. His brother is sitting on the edge of what seems to be a small scale archaeological dig with his feet dangling over the sides, there are little flags stuck in the ground at random points and the ground has been scraped away very precisely and meticulously. In the centre of the pit there's a cover of protective tarp, but as the breeze catches it it lifts to allow Ludwig to see clearly what's laying underneath. Poking up out of the dirt is a wire of some sort. It is spiked with barbs and coiled about itself, twisting in tangles back into the earth. Beside that a spike of what looks to be the top of a helmet juts its way skyward, metal dull and dented.

It's all rather banal, if one takes away the historical value, which is why when Ludwig looks over at Gilbert he can't for the life of him understand why he's crying. His brother is staring morosely at the helmet, tears streaming down his face unhindered and apart from a small hiccough of a sob, he is silent.

'Gilbert? Gilbert, what's wrong?' Ludwig can hear the uncertainty in his voice but he's too confused and worried to get himself to keep up any kind of nonchalance right now.

Gilbert's head jerks up at the sound of his name and he groans from somewhere primal and deep in his stomach. 'Oh God.' He looks at Ludwig, his eyes impossibly wide. ' _Scheisse_ West. _Gott.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really can't do short, can I? First of all, thank you very much for reading, especially if you've been with me since the start! There is a possibility that I'll write an epilogue, but it depends on whether or not you're all satisfyed with the current ending. It does end nicely like this for me, but I'm in two minds as to whether or not I want to go into further detail about what comes next. Let me know what you think! Whether they ever fully remember who they were or not, and whether they become nations again or stay human I shall leave up to your imaginations in the meantime.
> 
> I tried to give the characters a distinct theme to give them and their behaviours a bit more depth; a reason or a symptom of their desire to return to Earth:
> 
> Alfred- Wind/ space ...Matthew- Animals
> 
> Francis- Light/ expression... Arthur- Sea and plants
> 
> Peter- Sea/ language
> 
> Ludwig- Earth/ touch (the sense)... Gilbert- Fire (passion/loyalty)
> 
> It's not explicitly made clear, but there is a timeline of sorts:
> 
> \- Earth is declared habitable a few weeks before Peter's planet's life-support system fails. With a three year journey, he's the furthest away. His planet has been failing for years, so as soon as the announcement went out about Earth his parents bought tickets to escape.
> 
> \- Francis leaves his planet as soon as the same announcement goes out. He and Arthur only have a two year journey and they make up the founding colony, after the scientists already there. They are the first to arrive.
> 
> \- Ludwig and Gilbert leave their space-ship for their two year voyage a year after Francis and Arthur.
> 
> \- After Francis lands, a year passes as the colony gets settled.
> 
> \- Alfred is the closest to earth and hears about Earth at seventeen. He decides to leave later, after his eighteenth birthday, once he hears that the colony is doing well and meets Matthew aboard his passenger ship. They arrive around the same time as Ludwig and Peter, one year later.
> 
> \- After a long journey, Peter and his fleet arrive to a two year old, thriving new community just after Ludwig and Alfred.
> 
> Phew! This is probably the longest AN I've ever done and certainly the most in-depth short story I've ever written. I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it, and thank you for your support. Please do let me know what you thought, I would love to hear any sort of feedback for this. Any criticism or feedback is sought with open arms.
> 
> See you soon!


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